In For a Penny

As a child, I’d dreamed of a fairy tale life, as most spoiled little brats tend to do. Marry for love, but only if they could afford the price tag I put on myself. If I put all of my effort into finding a man to make enough money for both of us, I wouldn't need any actual skills.

My father insisted I go to college, and I begrudgingly stomped and whined my way into a degree. If he hadn’t demanded so, I might’ve bided my time searching for a self-proclaimed god among men to wrap diamond-studded cuffs around my wrists and a golden chain around my throat, suffocating any coherent thoughts from escaping my swollen lips.

I loved my father for saving me from that. Loved. Before he decided my degree wasn’t as impressive as being married before I turned 30.

And so, Henry found his way into the picture. The picture that I’d thought to be a masterpiece before him became more vibrant, more colorful, and more right. The pale hue of my skin more often became flushed with an exotic warmth. My mother swore my green eyes were sparkling emeralds when I said my vows and he said his.

Rose-tinted springs, azure summers, copper autumns, and ivory winters. The pink balloons that flashed in and out of my vision when we discovered a little girl was growing inside me. Yellow blankets in the custom-made nursery we designed together. Red after my first, second, and third miscarriage. Muted green dollar bills that soon became more essential to his happiness than his wife. Purple bruises formed and healed in a torturous cycle until his mistress bore a child and he needed the world to think Oliver was a legitimate heir. I became the doting mother of a son who wasn’t mine, and I attempted to recover the broken, pain-strewn remains of my pride. It became apparent to me that bright colors faded fast.

Then, there I was. The mourning widow. Stifling false sobs to hold up the pretenses of actual sorrow. I’d mourned the end of my marriage in private long before my husband passed.

It was a hot day, not ideal for an outdoor funeral, but that was the point. It was the only way I could subtly express my disdain without adding fuel to the burning fires of gossip surrounding my family. The amount of black I was required to wear, however, was making me rethink my tendency toward spiteful decisions. I sniffed softly, refusing to let my facade fall, and used the cover of wiping a tear to wipe the sweat beading on my upper lip.

Mr. Beckby droned on, speaking about the years he'd known my husband; all four of them. They were appropriately embellished to make them appear closer than they had been. I wondered briefly who allowed him to speak before I recalled with a smile that I had. It was first come first serve with the speakers at Henry's funeral, and Mr. Beckby came first in everything but a footrace.

Oliver, poor thing, spoke next, holding his tears back, but unknowingly allowing a single drop to slide down his cheek.

“My father—” His voice hitched, and he took a deep breath to compose himself before beginning again, “My father was the best husband, father, or man anyone could ask for.”

I let out a small laugh before I could help it, but I disguised it as a nasty-sounding sob when the woman next to me glared at my volume. The nerve.

“I personally couldn't imagine anyone who I will look up to as much as I did my father.” He glanced down at the casket that held Henry. “As a boy, he once said to me...”

I stopped listening then, focusing on how the sun reflected off of my ring. I’d heard enough praise for his perfect, pompous, fool of a father for a million lifetimes today. I didn’t need it from Oliver.

Before I could allow myself to be entertained by my thoughts, everyone began to stand, flocking to the rich mahogany casket with silver accents polished to a mirror shine.

Besides the occasional condolences offered, I was not approached as I stood apart from the line of people looking at the corpse of my husband. Everyone was the same, looking at him for a second, feeling uncomfortable, and leaving. A couple of teenagers kept trying to get a young girl to touch his hand, laughing when she let out a soft squeak when he felt much colder than a body should on this scorching day.

Soon, the crowds moved to the refreshments, and it was my turn. Gazing down at Henry, I felt Oliver looking at me from across the lawn, waiting to see what I would do. I pretended not to notice his stare.

Henry looked good, for a dead man. His best suit was pressed to perfection around his lifeless form. Someone had placed a single red rose between Henry’s hands, and they clasped loosely around it on top of his abdomen. I touched one of his hands. He truly was unnaturally cold, as if he were only an inanimate object. His face would’ve looked peaceful if not for the awkward sunkenness of it all. The pillow under his head must’ve been positioned wrong because his chins--which were usually hidden when he stuck up his nose at something--were all visible.

I bent down and placed a kiss on his forehead, and my mind recalled when we were a young couple. A press of his lips to my brows in the morning, or my lips to his. It became our lovely habit before he thought perhaps we should have separate rooms because he didn't want to keep me up when he "worked late". He was thoughtful like that; wanting to keep me ignorant, all the while dropping hints of his growing distaste for my presence. The kiss left a bitter taste in my mouth and I wanted to escape. Away from the crowd, and away from him. But I needed to do something. A final farewell that would leave his spirit churning wherever he was in the dark pits of the afterlife.

I pried the rose from his limp hands, not breaking my gaze from the moisture left on his face from my kiss. I hoped he felt it, wherever he was, and I hoped it burned him like an acid seeping into his skull.

As I turned away, red rose in hand, I caught Oliver's eye. My gaze followed him curiously until I placed a pair of dark sunglasses on my face. He shook his head at me and scoffed. He didn’t approve. However, I didn’t need his approval; I was the grieving wife, and grief manifests itself in strange ways.

The weeks went by quickly. I spent my time secluded in my room, allowing prying eyes to assume I was still in mourning. But there was something that I couldn’t shake from my mind that made my seclusion a little less joyful than it should have been.

The will.

Henry had been of average wealth when we were married, likely to leave a small inheritance to whomever he wanted when he passed. That was before his newspaper became one of the most popular in the city. His salary nearly tripled what it was before, and he led us into a more than comfortable life. I followed blindly behind, like a trusting Eurydice faithfully following a doubtful Orpheus. Only in our journey, Henry lost any concern about whether I was behind him at all.

Still, a will hadn’t been found. Surely he’d left me enough for a new start. Oliver would get the business, that much I knew. He’d been groomed for it his whole life. Other associates would get their small portion, he was a generous man, after all.

The search for the will was as extensive as it could be with only me and a man I hired to clean Henry’s office. I should’ve expected that Oliver would be the first to interrupt my search, but it still startled me to hear the door burst open followed by a fuming Oliver. My first instinct was to scowl at him, but I quickly plastered on the face of a loving mother.

“What are you doing here, darling? I thought you were studying.” I waited for a response, but Oliver glanced at the man next to me, whose ears were perked up despite his attempt to look fully invested in the papers before him.

I waved the man away and looked to Oliver, who glared until the door closed with a soft click.

“What are you doing in here?” He demanded. 

“Whatever could you mean?”

“Cut the loving mother act.” He advanced forward, “I mean what are you doing in here? In this office.”

I sighed, but I knew I couldn’t keep dodging forever.

“Well, as you know, the lawyers have been unable to find a will.” A heavy silence fell over the room, and the thick curtains suddenly felt stifling, “I only thought your father might’ve placed it somewhere here.” 

The smile I found on my face felt wrong for what I’d just said, but it was second nature with Oliver. I’d been using that smile with him since he was a child. A dam of feigned innocence holding back a flood of contempt.

“These are his private things, and if his will were here I would’ve been aware of its location.” He scolded as if I were the child in this scenario, just like his father used to.

“I suppose you’re right.” I looked at Oliver as he scanned around the room, no doubt thinking of his father. Once he noticed me looking, I spoke softly, “Well, it is going to need to be cleaned at some point, Oliver.”

He shook his head, “Not by you. Not by lawyers. He didn’t want—”

“What, do you suppose you’re going to do it?” I cut him off, “What gives you the right over me? I was his wife, after all.”

I stood, an inch taller than Oliver with my heels.

His eye twitched. He was getting angry.

“I helped him look over this business for years, Mother. He and I practically lived in this office.”

“Well, it seems to me that the state of his affairs,” I gestured to the mess of books and files strewn around the office, “may have often been overlooked by the state of some of his other affairs.”

Oliver understood the tone in my voice and his his face went pale. I held up the worn blue folder that I’d been keeping close to me since I’d found it and threw it down on the desk. This held his certificate of birth, stating his real birth mother, as she had insisted. I wasn’t sure what I was going to use it for now that it was in my possession, but it was something I could use against him.

“You’re despicable.” He muttered.

“I’m—?” I laughed at his accusation, “Oh darling, your father was despicable.” My voice dropped from sickly sweet to a menacing tone that sounded more threatening than I’d meant it. “I’m much worse.”

I grabbed the blue file and several others and moved to leave.

“I’ll be off then. Enjoy your sulking, Oliver.”

The moment I turned the door handle, I felt his hand on my arm. It wasn’t an aggressive move, just a brush against my arm to stop me. I looked back.

“Put it back," he said, “Please.”

“Your birth certificate? I’m afraid I can’t—”

“You know what I mean.” His eye twitched again.

“I don’t understand.”

“Put his journal back.”

“I don’t--”

“Put it back!” He slammed his hand on the desk so forcefully that a couple of books that were on the edge fell to the ground.

I flinched when his hand slammed, and several seconds of silence followed. I can’t quite explain the emotion that came over me, but I flew toward him, backing him to the wall. I moved with such resolution that I gave him no other choice. My hand reached his neck, pushing him onto the shelf behind. He grunted at the impact, and my eye caught on something. A tie clip holding closed a thick folder. Curious, I placed my files on top. My face moved to Oliver's, breaking eye contact to speak directly into his ear.

“You talk so boldly for the bastard son of an unfaithful man. When did you learn to talk to me like this?”

Oliver didn’t respond except for the involuntary wheezing from the pressure my hand was placing on his throat, but I waited a couple of seconds for a response anyway. A childlike fear had entered his eyes and my grip loosened.

“That’s what I thought,” I whispered once I released my hold on his neck. I pushed him away, unnerved at the reddening marks my nails had left.

“If you were looking for this,” I pulled a worn journal from my pocket, “I suppose you deserve it.”

It was a small, thin notebook, about the size of my hand, but it was leatherbound. Besides the initials on the corner, it was rather uninteresting. I’d only grabbed it to know what went on in Henry’s head. That journal was his confidante more than I ever was, and I was curious as to what he wrote about me. It wasn’t important now.

I pressed it harshly into his right hand, his left being on Henry’s desk in order to hold himself upright. He let out a breath and stared at the notebook as if studying the reality of the object.

He then seemed to remember I was in the room, still grabbing the files I had abandoned on the shelf. His gaze turned cold.

“You make it really easy to hate you, mother.” The venom in his voice leached into my bloodstream, but it seemed I had a natural antidote.

Indifference.

I rolled my eyes, and secured the folders in my hand, checking for the second time to make sure I had everything.

 “What kind of person would I be if I made it difficult?” I turned on my heel, striding to the door. Slamming it behind me, I broke into a brisk walk to my room. It took me a moment to regain my composure once there. Maybe I wasn’t as indifferent as I thought.

I’d tried to raise Oliver with all the love a mother could, but I was bitter. I felt like no more than a nursemaid taking care of some other woman’s child. He had Henry’s nose, but his mother’s eyes. He had brown hair like his father’s, but it was a curly mop on his head that I'd assume would mirror his mother's. I would see every minor difference between Oliver and me and allow miles to come between us. I was a woman holding a child that wasn’t my own and I was weak enough to allow that to corrupt me. I had allowed myself to become numb to the motherhood I’d been yearning for my whole life, and I’d failed Oliver because of that.

But I couldn’t dwell on that anymore. I took several deep breaths and leaned on the back of my door. Pulling out the folder with the tie clip--Henry’s tie clip--I opened it slowly. It had looked thick before, but it was only because of the expensive, sturdy paper that had been used, of which there were maybe five pieces bound together. On the front paper, in big bold letters read:

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF HENRY NOBLE

I gasped and slapped my hand over my mouth to quiet myself. I felt as if any sound might announce to the world what I had found. I quickly turned the page and scanned through the paragraphs on charity and inheritance, finding my name only in the statement of who he was married to. I searched again, carefully studying each word on all of the pages. That couldn’t be right.

He hadn’t left me anything?

He’d left the majority to his son, and the occasional heirloom or stack of cash to his friends. He even left a hefty sum to a “Sandra Peltzer.” My brows furrowed as I repeated the search process again, certain there was a mistake.

After several minutes of this, I was gripping the papers so hard they started to crease where my fingers met the smooth parchment. I couldn’t believe this. Henry couldn’t have done this, could he? He loved me at some point, I was sure of it. Was I? My perfect husband couldn’t even leave me a cent after I stayed silent and patient all these wretched years?

The press was going to go wild. Surely Oliver was going to disown me publicly, I wasn’t his mother. I had nothing to stake my claim on that family except the years I spent in it. Both of my parents were long dead and I never saw any of the money they left, Henry had seen to that. Any threats I gave to Oliver were now empty when he could control the newspapers. He might even use his birth mother to his advantage.

His birth mother.

I pulled the blue folder from my stack. Henry had never told me her name, and I hadn’t asked, but I needed something confirmed in my mind. I peered at Oliver’s birth certificate. Sandra D. Peltzer was written in swirly letters on the signature line below the word mother. He gave her money? I didn’t understand.

The moment I thought my picture was finally regaining its color, Henry ruined it. Again. Even in death, he couldn’t stand to see me with a single penny unless he was there to control what I did with it. I’d wasted my life. I’d wasted my time. And even worse...

I had killed Henry for nothing.